Chapter 14
The next day, at approximately noon, my phone starts buzzing with a group text tornado.
Murder Club Group Chat
Chevy: Tonight’s the night! Murder club meeting at Hattie’s! I’ve got my investigation supplies ready!
Kick: I’m bringing the kids. They can practice Christmas carols while we discuss homicide. Multitasking!
Bunny: Kick—do NOT bring your children! Anyway, I’ve got champagne and theories! Both are bubbly and guaranteed to make everything more interesting—without the littles!
Tipper: Henry made “Conviction Canapés”! He’s really getting into this murder theme. Should I be worried?
Peggy: Sugar, I’m bringing my famous interrogation casserole! Nothing makes people confess faster than proper comfort food!
Clarabelle: My lucky questioning hat is ready! The Christmas bells are extra jingly tonight!
Hattie: Just a reminder—this is technically a BOOK club. We were supposed to read “Murder for Christmas” by Addison Moore. Which I actually DID read, by the way.
Chevy: Who has time to READ about murder when we’re living it? Real life is so much more entertaining!
Hillary: Fiction is for people with boring lives. We have actual corpses.
Kick: Did anyone actually read the book? Be honest.
Silence
Hattie: Seriously? I’m the only one who read it? It’s actually really good!
Bunny: Reading is overrated when you have champagne and gossip!
Hattie: You’re all terrible book club members.
I set my phone down with a sigh. So much for literary discussion.
The afternoon was fraught with far too many people, far too little caffeine, and way too much Peyton Blakely for it to ever be safe.
But somehow, I managed to survive—mostly because Cricket and Rookie kept suggesting I cuddle with Mr. Jolly Beary each time Peyton demanded rather loudly that I solve this case or I’ll be the next body found with holiday lights wrapped around her neck.
She’s a treasure.
But it’s evening now, and my tiny A-frame cabin smells like cinnamon, pine, and nervous energy that comes with hosting six women whose combined shoe collections alone could bankrupt a small nation.
I’ve got hot cocoa bubbling in a slow cooker that takes up half my kitchen counter, fresh coffee brewing in the machine Killion bought me, and spiced apple cider warming on the stove.
Christmas lights twinkle from every available surface, garlands drape across the exposed beams, and my miniature Christmas trees have been placed to create maximum holiday ambiance in minimum square footage—and in absence of a real tree, which still makes me sniff in defeat.
How is this entire holiday season getting away from me?
I don’t understand why you’re so nervous, Cricket says from atop my bookshelf. It’s just a few people coming over to discuss murder. What could go wrong?
Everything smells like Christmas cookies and excitement! Rookie adds, his tail creating small hurricanes as he patrols the cabin. I love parties! Especially ones where people drop food!
The first knock comes at exactly seven, and I open the door to find Chevy standing there with a murder board tucked under one arm and a bottle of wine clutched in the other hand.
“Emergency deployment,” she announces, striding past me as she turns amateur detective work into an art form.
She’s wearing a designer Christmas sweater that probably has its own tax bracket, dark jeans that fit like they were sewn directly onto her body, and boots that could double as weapons.
Her holiday red Birkin bag matches her lipstick.
“Bestseller Brie bites,” she says, setting down a platter that looks like it came from a top chef. “And Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Because murder investigations require proper wine pairings.”
She immediately starts setting up her murder board against my living room wall, complete with photos, string, and what appears to be a flow chart of suspicious behavior.
This woman is more organized than my grooming schedule, Cricket notes with grudging respect.
Hillary arrives next, looking as if she stepped out of a holiday catalog for people with trust funds.
Her cashmere turtleneck is the exact color of champagne, her leggings fit in that molded way that only happens when money is involved, and her boots are made for walking—straight into a bank vault.
Her black Birkin bag has a festive scarf tied to the handle like a very expensive Christmas ornament.
“Guilty pleasure gourmet chocolates,” she announces, placing a gold box on my kitchen counter.
“From that little place in Belgium that only takes appointments.” No one will know they’re being regifted.
How dare my old college roommate send me something that she knows I can’t stop eating.
I bet she would just love to see me in a whole new dress size for our reunion this spring.
“Thank you,” I tell her. I think.
Kick follows close behind, dressed for both a PTA meeting and a police raid.
Her yoga ensemble is practical but reeks of hundred-dollar bills, and her posture suggests she could lead a PTA fundraiser or chase down a suspect with equal commitment.
Her navy Birkin bag looks like it could survive a nuclear attack.
“Evidence eclairs and conviction cookies,” she says, juggling covered plates while simultaneously texting what I assume are childcare instructions.
“The kids are with Kirk. I told them Mommy was going to solve a murder and they should practice their Christmas carols—loudly.” Serves the son of a witch right for demanding I make our gifts from scratch.
Tipper strides in wearing a sweater dress that hugs her figure and knee-high boots that make her legs look approximately seven feet long. And she moves like she knows exactly how good she looks.
“Henry’s suspect sliders and alibi appetizers,” she says, setting down trays that smell like heaven and look like they belong in a five-star restaurant.
And they do. My brother’s. “He’s really embracing the murder theme.
I’m starting to think this investigation is affecting his brain chemistry.
” Much the same way I have. She winks at me with the thought.
“No doubt,” I tell her with a smile.
Bunny makes her entrance, looking as if she’s ready to walk the red carpet at the Met Gala. Her holiday ensemble involves sequins that could illuminate half of Maine, and her limited-edition holiday print Birkin bag has probably been insured, appraised, and written into someone’s will.
“Santa’s secret strawberry kisses and Dom Pérignon!
” she announces, somehow managing to carry both while still looking like she could pose for Vogue.
“Because if we’re going to solve a murder, we should do it in style!
” And heaven knows I need to lead the fashion charge for the both of us.
Poor Hattie can’t keep up. I’ll have to see about getting her a raise.
“Please do,” I say without thinking, and she offers me a quizzical look before shrugging it off and dancing her way to the sofa.
The cabin is starting to feel like a very expensive, very small holiday party when Peggy and Clarabelle arrive, two hurricanes wearing their holiday best—or their holiday worst, depending on your definition of both.
Peggy’s ensemble includes actual jingle bells sewn onto her sweater, and the sound follows her like a mobile Christmas concert. “Mystery meat casserole and cornbread!” she calls out, carrying covered dishes that smell like home and comfort and everything good about the holidays.
Clarabelle follows behind wearing a holiday cardigan that looks like it was knitted by someone’s grandmother, sensible shoes, and a hat decorated with enough Christmas ornaments to decorate a small tree.
“Killer pecan pie and sweet tea!” she announces.
“And my lucky questioning hat is ready for action!”
Neither of them has a Birkin bag. Instead, they’re carrying practical purses and casserole carriers that have probably seen more family gatherings than a wedding photographer.
These women brought more food than we could eat in a month, Cricket points out as my kitchen counter disappears under gourmet platters and down-home comfort food.
I love them all, Rookie declares with absolute sincerity. They understand the importance of proper party snacks.
The conversation immediately turns to holiday spending, and I watch in fascination as each woman tries to casually outdo the others.
“I just picked up the most divine cashmere throws from Hermès,” Hillary mentions while arranging her chocolates. “One for each guest room.”
“How many guest rooms do you have?” Kick asks.
“Seven.”
Chevy snorts. “I bought myself a vintage wine collection. Seventeen bottles, each one older than my first book deal.”
“As you should,” Tipper says. “Henry and I are keeping it simple this year. Just a couple’s trip to Aspen.”
“Aspen’s lovely,” Bunny sighs. “I’m spending Christmas in Monaco with Nicholas. He’s performing at a private party for some oil heiress, and she’s paying for everything. First-class flights, five-star hotel, the works.”
The room falls silent. Even by Bunny’s standards, Christmas in Monaco with a professional Santa is impressive.
“Nicholas?” Hillary asks.
“My Santa impersonator,” Bunny explains, smiling like a loon. “He’s very dedicated to his craft.”
I’m starting to understand why you and your friends need so much therapy, Cricket mewls.
Peggy shakes her head while serving herself some eggnog. “Y’all spend more on Christmas than most folks make in a year.”
“That’s the point,” Bunny says cheerfully. “Money should be fun, not practical. That’s why they call it funny money.”
Clarabelle is studying Chevy’s murder board as if she were solving a crossword puzzle. “You’ve got good organization here, sugar. It’s very professional.”
“Thank you. I believe in treating amateur detective work with the seriousness it deserves.”
The conversation flows from holiday spending to gift-giving strategies to family drama, and my tiny cabin fills with sophisticated gossip that probably fuels half the social events in New England.
The door opens, and everyone stops talking.
Peyton stands in my doorway, holding herself together with what looks like spite and very expensive concealer.
She’s dressed down from her usual power suits, wearing dark jeans and a sweater that has generational wealth written all over it, but she looks like she’s been accused of murder and is starting to believe it herself.
The silence stretches so long that even Cricket stops grooming her paw to stare.
“Well,” Peyton says finally, “this isn’t awkward at all.”
Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. The only sound is the gentle bubble of hot cocoa and the soft Christmas carols playing from my phone.
“Should I leave?” Peyton asks. “Because I can solve my own murder case if that would make everyone more comfortable,” she says it like a threat.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say quickly, grabbing her arm and pulling her inside. “We’re all here to help clear your name.”
Are we though? Cricket wonders. Because the energy in this room suggests otherwise.
Peyton drops her bag in its usual spot, takes her usual seat, and reaches for the cookies before I’ve even finished saying hello. “Nice party. It all looks very festive.”
“It’s a book club meeting,” I remind everyone. “Technically.”
“A book club that solves murders,” Chevy points out, gesturing toward her murder board. “Which makes it a murder club.”
“With really excellent refreshments,” Bunny adds, raising her champagne glass.
Peyton looks around the room at the faces of women who, hours ago, were discussing her guilt via group text, and I realize that hosting a murder investigation in a space the size of a large closet might not have been my best decision.
But then again, when has anything about this case been even remotely sensible?
At this point, the real mystery isn’t who committed the crime—it’s how to solve it without committing another one yourself.